Capture!
by Dracones
Summary: What would have happened if Murtagh had gone after the right people instead of Nasuada after the battle of Dras-Leona. Alternative course to Inheritance. ENTIRELY SEPERATE to my fanfic Ebrithilar.
1. Chapter 1

**This is an alternative course to Inheritance, which hopefully will fit into the actual plot practically perfectly, just with an extra month or so in the middle, in fact, probably two months, or three, or four... It'll be a while, put it that way. Starts after Dras-Leona. Ends... Before they go to Vroengard. In fact, it might develop into something which changes the course of the whole book, meaning an entire rewrite of the second half. I'll have to see where it goes...**

**Summary: Murtagh goes after much more important targets than Nasuada after the battle of Dras-Leona, creating a huge upheval for Eragon, Arya, and Saphira. What will they do? Eragon's morals will be massively questioned. Rated T for extremely violent scenes and themes, but I won't be too explicit with it.**

**Now: Just after chapter: By the Banks of Lake Leona, when Eragon and Arya have just got drunk, then heard Thorn's roar. The first few parts of this chapter will be CP's.**

The Loss of a Rider.

Eragon grabbed Brisingr, and then he and Arya dashed from the tent.

Outside, Eragon staggered and fell to one knee as the ground seemed to pitch beneath him. He clutched at a tuft of grass, using it as an anchor while he waited for the dizziness to fade.

When he dared look up, he squinted. The light from the torches was painfully bright; the flames swam before him like fish, as if detatched from the oil-soaked rags that fed them.

_Balance is gone,_ thought Eragon._ Can't trust my vision. Have to clear my mind. Have to-_

A patch of motion caught his eye, and he ducked. **(AN: This is where it changes.)** But his judgement of depth was off; the movement was well above his head, amongst the clouds, but getting closer.

With a sound like a mighty wind of fate, from out of the blackness of the sky had emerged Thorn, red as blood and glittering like a million shifting stars. **(AN: That last bit was CP's, but from here on in it's mine. How Eragon has time for all these similies at a time like this is beyond me. I much prefer smilies, actually. Quicker. ;) )** Saphira, not at her best because of Eragon's intoxication, reared up and sent an inferno up to greet the diving dragon, but her aim was off, and she came closer to scorching Blodhgarm, who was running up to the three outside Eragon's tent, followed by the rest of the elves. He jerked away from the fire, which was quickly redirected upwards, and took a position at Saphira's flank. The rest of the elves got into similar defensive positions, casting concerned glances towards the Rider and the Princess.

Eragon was now leaning on Arya's shoulder, and she on his. ;) **(See what I mean?)** Saphira stood protectively over them, baring her fangs at the dragon that had dodged the fireball and spun around for more, but the blue dragon stumbled as she lashed out at him, allowing to scratch her on the side with his claws, but not to land.

Pain erupted across Eragon's ribcage, the shock causing him to fall, and Arya with him. When he hit the ground, and she hit him, he heard her mutter some incoherant words and the influence of the drink vanished. After helping each other to their feet, still off-balance, he nodded to her, and she to him; they drew their swords in unison and looked to the skies.

Thorn was hovering, out of the range of his opponent's fire. Eragon made as if to jump onto Saphira, but he had not told her of his plan, and she had cut their connection, so as to ward off the influence the drink had had on him.

The beautiful blue dragon took off powerfully, rising speedily and swiping at his head. He dodged, spinning underneath her, and Eragon soon saw why as a figure dropped from the saddle.

The dark shape from Thorn's back landed easily, falling into a crouch as he hit the ground. A hand went to a hilt; a face turned upwards; and Murtagh Morzansson drew Zar'roc swiftly, rising into a defensive stance.

Eragon, Arya, and the elves advanced towards him cautiously, then faster, and Murtagh only grinned at the sight of thirteen highly skilled swordspeople, swords all out, rushing towards him in attack. When Eragon assaulted his mind, sensing others likewise doing so, he found that it was well guarded, as if by many. The Eldunari, he realised.

Then, Murtagh spoke a word. "Stenr!" The ground shifted beneath Eragon's feet, and suddenly he was in the air, soaring backwards, another figure doing the same beside him, and he had to hit the ground soon, and-

He did.

But the other person didn't hit the ground; they hit him. And for the second time that night, Arya landed on him.

It winded him more than the initial impact, probably because that had yet to fully register when her full weight came down on him, though that was not an incredibly large amount. He could have sworn he heard a rib crack, and Saphira roared overhead. He struggled into a sitting position once Arya had stood up, but halted, holding his torso.

She cast a concerned glance over at the other elves, then him, before coming to a decision and leaning over him quietly, speaking hurried words of healing, and the rib moved back into place quickly. He grunted his thanks, and she pulled him to his feet, muttering an apology.

The elves were assembled in a rough circle around Murtagh, who stood, watching them, with great confidence on his face. Arya and Eragon, who had been thrown eighty feet away from the nearest elf, began to run at their fastest speed towards the circle. Murtagh, however, had other plans. He cried, one after the other, "Ganga aptr!" and then "Ganga fram!"

His targets for the first spell were Blodhgarm and the remaining ten elves. The magic overwhelmed their wards, throwing them back and holding them down at a cry of "Letta!" Though Eragon could see that many were striving to break the enchantments, they were unsuccessful in their efforts.

An ominous sign, that; Murtagh could hold off eleven of Islanzadi's best spellweavers without pause.

Slightly more ominous was the fact that the second spell was directed at him and Arya.

They hurtled through the air again, crossing the distance between them and Murtagh quickly; Eragon fell flat on his front, tearing his shirt and scraping his skin; Arya met the ground with her hands, cushioning the blow whilst balancing on them, then propelled herself into the air, sword still in her grip, spinning tightly and striking a barely blocked blow at Murtagh's head before landing on her feet and immediately forcing him backwards with a series of powerful strikes.

The feat left him more breathless than the fall had.

Quickly getting to his feet as Murtagh lost yet more ground to the elven princess, even as he had in their sparring sessions, Eragon charged at his half-brother, Brisingr in his hand. The blue sword was met by the red, which Murtagh was then forced to throw upwards and catch a second later to avoid losing his arm to the thin blade of the elven princess. But then Murtagh raised his hand, spoke a quick word of restriction, and Eragon was frozen in place. He attempted to use magic without the ancient language to break the bonds, but they held firm, and he sagged as best he could from the energy loss. Arya had a similar reaction beside him, from what he could see.

His eyes glancing around, Eragon noticed a crowd forming around the scene, restricted, it seemed, from coming or hearing beyond a certain distance. Eragon could make out the faces of several from Carvahall-Horst, his sons, even Morn the tavern keeper-but he was glad that Roran wasn't there to see.

But Saphira was yet free; she hurtled down towards Murtagh like a sapphire star falling in a blaze of fire, said element spewing out of her mouth, a writhing, burning embodiment of the fury he could feel within her-

But Murtagh raised a hand, smirked, spoke a word, and she slowed, and Thorn slammed into her back, taking her down to the ground. And Thorn breathed his bright red fire straight into the sky; a signal, surely, and Eragon was right, for horns were heard from the east, and cries of war.

And the soldiers of the Varden left; they had to. Their commanders shouted to them to leave; common sense told them to defend their camp; but it was with obviously heavy and fell hearts that they left the fall of their hero, their ambassador, and the guards of the two, not to mention their only dragon. And so the space around them emptied, and the disheartened men went to fight a battle that was no use anymore, only a few staying; those closest to Eragon, Nasuada having now turned up too-and Thorn picked up Arya and Eragon in his claws, helpless, defenseless but for their minds, and Murtagh mounted Saphira now, placing his sword against her neck all the while, ready to plunge it into her vertebrae-a weaker point for any animal-and commanded her to follow Thorn. And Arya and Eragon watched from above as well as they could, seeing the Varden's forces falling back, their commanders' orders useless in the face of terrible morale.

The loss of the Rider had greatly cost them already.

**Okay! Quite a short one, for me, but right now it's all that's needed.**

**As I've already finished what CP started-and finished it right-with my fanfic Ebrithilar, my book 5, I now intend to show just how he could have finished it with what he had in his book 4. Yep, this is me, fixing Inheritance. Most of the key points there will remain, e.g. the Vault and the Rock, and the final battle, and some of the aftermath; five hundred odd pages, all in all. I intend to rewrite all but any Roran ones (he isn't important) and entirely disregard anything Nasuada (obviously, or she'd be captured too,) not to mention add in several chapters as well. All in all, this may turn out to be equal to or greater than the last 500 pages of Inheritance, in volume. Quality will of course be chosen by you!**

**This is being written partly because I seriously want to write something big on here that I haven't posted somewhere before, partly because I see no real reason for Murtagh to go after Nasuada rather than Eragon or Arya, so I wrote it when he did go after them, and partly for a spoiler reason that I won't tell you.**

**Goodbye!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Blueasice24: Hey! Thought I recognised your story title somewhere on this site! Glad you like it, and the action! And it is true, I'm all for ExA, and the paths it will take may be surprising and shocking to you all... I shall certainly keep writing.**

**: Yeah, it is overrated, and I just thought I'd do something different to it. Yep, they're captured! But what happens next... read on!**

**DomesticHouseCat: Thanks! Hopefully it won't be dissapointing... Sorry about the commas, but another chapter is coming up now, and it should be good!**

**Mattchew Inheritance: Yeah, he is weak... What can I say, he's drunk! Plus Murtagh has way more Eldunari than him, he's bound to look weak in comparison.**

**Elemental Dragon Slayer: Glad you like the plotline. And yep, ExA all the way! May be some unexpected parts though...**

Chapter 2

Arya was unconscious. She was deep within her mind, behind her instinctive layers of barriers, noticing nothing around her. Vauge memories ran through her, of what had happened.

_Eragon collapsing, and her collapsing onto him. Murtagh landing, after jumping off Thorn. The ground propelling her away, and landing on Eragon again. Healing him. Charging at Murtagh. Him taking out and holding down all the spellcasters. Being locked in place by his magic. Thorn lifting her and Eragon, Saphira forced to follow behind. Falling asleep from exhaustion. And now..._

She began to stir, opening her eyes and expecting light to hit her and force her to blink. None came. She was in almost pitch darkness. She could see little but the faint outlines of four walls surrounding her.

Black walls, dirty walls. They seemed to reek of evil, of despair, and of countless peoplle formerly who had lain where she was, giving up hope all the while.

She was in a prison cell.

The thin wooden board that hung outwards from the wall, she could tell, was barely enough to hold her weight. She swung her legs off it, sitting up, and immediately became dizzy; a sensation she could easily recignise from Gil'ead. She had been drugged. She was a prisoner.

Which meant so was Eragon, and so was Saphira.

And they were Murtagh's prisoners, which meant they were in Uru'baen, and under Galbatorix's control. Victims of Galbatorix's tortures were certainly not silent, she had heard. On some nights, screams had been said to ring throughout the entire city, followed by the King's cold, cruel laughter; a signal of power over his citizens and his enemies.

As her eyesight adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, she saw that there was a single door to the cell; magically reinforced and guarded, she could see through the small gap, by a number of soldiers, but not a number so great that she could not defeat them herself. If she ever got out, they would be in for a shock, she swore to herself. But then it hit her.

She wouldn't be able to get out. The door was strong enough to restrain her, or Galbatorix was a lot more arrogant than any had ever presumed. Not to mention the fact that after a week or two in Uru'baen, she would be lucky to even be able to stand at all, let alone fight or break out of the largest city in the Empire. It was hopeless, for both her and Eragon.

And surely it would be worse for the Rider? Galbatorix needed him more, him and Saphira. And that would mean massive tortures for the last free Rider, her friend. While she felt a kind of guilty releif that she would not be the priority for Galbatorix's tortures, as she was with Durza, the fear and sorrow she felt for Eragon and their cause, not to mention Saphira, outweighed that by far.

Arya leant back against the cold, hard wall, conserving her energy. She shivered lightly as her back came into contact with it, but remained in the same position, before pulling her legs up to the wooden bench and wrapping her arms around them. Being in a cell again brought memories of Durza, of Gil'ead, and she struggled to repress the feelings of whips and swords and knives sinking into her flesh, knowing that they would only weaken her against Galbatorix further.

Arya lay down now, on her side, waiting for something to happen and strengthening her mental defences, just in case of Galbatorix hoping to catch her unawares. She would not be unprepared, unlike when Durza had first captured her. She would avoid taking the drugs as best she could, while she still retained enough sense to realise that, and she would resist everything as well as she could. And so she rested, as well as she could, in the blackness, waiting for someone to come.

An hour later, Arya heard a heart-wrenching scream of pain.

It was followed by a dragon's roar of fury, and a cruel laugh.

Then it happened again.

* * *

When Saphira woke, she was in chains. That fact alone was enough to cause fire to spew from her mouth by mere instinct. But even more disturbing and enraging was the great black dragon that loomed over her, like some dark mountain with malicious intent. Scales ran the length of it, great claws reached outwards at her, and ice-blue eyes scrutinized her, like some great hunting eagle sizing up its prey, but not so majestic. No, Shruikan's air was more that of an old, battered avian, losing its feathers, yet still staring down at an elegant dove in contempt for its size, though he could never match her grace nor her looks. Yes, Saphira preferred that analogy of the black dragon.

And Thorn too was nearby, an awkward spectator who did not seem to be required, but was there anyway. His red scales were as dull as Shruikan's in the low lighting.

The lighting itself was magical, no doubt, Saphira thought with a flash of rage, powered by the Eldunari. A flame darted from her jaw, but it had no effect on the metal bindings that held her in place.

She was in a massive cave, likely that where Thorn and Shruikan resided. Bones of prey animals were scattered across the black floor, reminding her slightly of the remains left by the Ra'zac at Helgrind. Dark, black flames flickered ominously at random intervals across the walls and the cieling. The two male dragons were unchained, Shruikan's huge bulk in front of her, Thorn crouched out of the way on her right, glancing between the other two as if he was not sure which he was more scared of.

Saphira shot him a glare and he backed away quickly. But Shruikan merely looked down with contempt at her, as if he knew that she would be unable to get out or fight.

She knew it too.

But she would show her pride as a dragon and the daughter of Verveda, and she would not quail under the the stare that Shruikan sent her way. She held her head as high as the chains would allow, determination in her eyes and in her heart, and she snapped visciously at his head as he bent his neck towards her.

Saphira allowed herself a small snort of amusement when he quickly withdrew his nose from within her reach. She hadn't bitten it, or surely the crazed dragon would have torn her apart.

That problem dealt with, where was Eragon? She tried to reach out for him, but his mind slipped away from hers as it had only once before, when he was a captive of the shade. He was drugged; their connection dull.

But enough of it remained for her to feel large scrapes forming across his back, bruises and pain bursting into being. She gritted her teeth, unable to do anything, and then the sensation on her back stopped, only for the just-eased injuries to flare up again in pain. Then, she could tell, the torture truly began for her Rider, and his scream of utter agony was dulled out a few seconds later by her own roar of anger.

Shruikan, unfeeling, stared at the dragoness, unable to comprehend what she was going through. The black-blood-traitor had never shared pain with his Rider. But Thorn gazed at her sympathetically, having gone through exactly the same as a young hatchling, she could tell, and he blinked in sorrow as another roar of hers drowned out Eragon's screaming.

And he screamed again, and she roared again, long into the night, or the day, or whichever time it was outside Uru'baen, where time mattered not, and the passing of the sun a mere memory.

* * *

Eragon knew not where he was, nor what was around him. He knew no touch of mind, nor ache of heart. All he knew was the sensations that passed over his skin. Rough bumps as he was dragged over a cold, hard floor. Arms gripping his and hauling him upwards, before slamming him down again onto a wooden surface. A table. Cold metal gripping his wrists. Being pulled outwards in every direction by the chains on his hands and feet. Then, hearing a sound of amusement, twisted, wretched, from a way away, and an order. His skin being sliced and punctured by a number of blades and knives. He then, almost detatchedly, realised that his clothes had been removed. Every inch of his skin was exposed, and soon he felt like every inch of his skin had been cut.

It was, he guessed, an hour, maybe two, before the torturer stopped. He noticed now that the drug might have been wearing off, but the blood loss was keeping him incapacitated and unable to think coherently. Now, Eragon heard footseps, nearing him, then words he recignised from somewhere, but could not place. A new torture, a terrible sensation of itching everywhere that he had been hurt, came over him, and he writhed as best he could, before realising that the blood was returning to his body, and the words had been a spell of healing.

Eragon struggled to open his eyes, and to fight back against his captors, but the chains and his lack of magic restrained him, only allowing him to do the former. He looked up to see a black, indistinct shape looming over him. The shape spoke words to him, words that Eragon in his weakened state could only just comprehend.

"So, you are the Rider, are you? But weak, too weak... Your power is insufficient for what you want. I can give you power, and take you back to your dragon. That's what you want. You need to be with your dragon." The voice was not a dark voice, or an evil voice, nay, it was a calm voice, a persuasive voice, yet one that had its own menace. Eragon weakly shook his head. He knew, somehow, that the voice was not one he wanted to listen to. He had heard it before, using a different tounge, but the same voice; he remembered little after the voice but despair and mourning following in its wake, and he knew that he could not give in to the powerful, convincing figure that stood over him. The voice spoke again, its tones softer this time, gentler.

"But your dragon is in danger. She is alone with two others; males. Do you not know what could happen? I can save her. Do you accept my offer? Or will you allow Thorn and Shruikan to harm... Saphira?" Rage flared in Eragon them, irrational, as far as he knew, but he felt it, and it gave him strength.

"Do not defile her name with your serpent's tounge. You know not of which you speak!" The surge of rejuvenating energy that his anger at the man had given him allowed him to wrench his body upwards as best he could, drawing a smirk from the dark shape who stood above him. Now he could see, the man had black hair, and a crown on his head. Eragon stuttered, gasped out a name. "Galbatorix..."

"Not many can remember that much under the influences of pain, torture, and drugs, Dragon Rider. You impress me, but not enough. You will not see your dragon unharmed when, or if, you come through this unless you swear yourself to me, now!" The figure became angry now, its cool and calm tones slipping away, but Eragon resoloutely shook his head in reply. He spoke back, knowing that of which he spoke, yet not remembering.

"I shall not swear myself to the one responsible for the death of my uncle, nor to the one whose same minions killed my mentor and later went on to attack my village and my cousin. I refuse to enslave myself to the one who allowed slavers like Torkenbrand to thrive, and the one who destroyed the greatest peace Alagaesia had ever known! I deny you the right to control me as you did Murtagh, through whom you killed Oromis and Glaedr, last remnants of the past you eliminated and my masters too! I and my dragon likewise shall never parley with the man we have fought all our lives to defeat and slay, and whatever gods may be be damned, we shall defeat you and we shall slay you, for our friends and our families, and for all those who are worse off under your rule. That I shall swear, but I shall never swear to you, Galbatorix. I swear it by the love of my dragon and all those around me that I call friend!" Tirade over, Eragon slumped back, ehxausted; his anger was released, and its energy too gone. He was almost into unconsciousness when he heard the man again.

"Interesting... love of all those around you, you say? Any in particular, perhaps? Never mind... Take him to a cell! Away from the elf and the dragon, so he won't escape with them or plan anything. I shall go to the dragon next..."

The footsteps started again, receeding, and more, heavier ones, came; Eragon was unchained, hauled off the torture table, and dragged along the cold stone floor again, aching all over, and minutes later he was thrown into a room and something thrust down his throat.

Then, something hard hit his head, and all went black again. He collapsed to the floor, and his last feeling was one of pain from Saphira; dull, blocked pain, but pain nonetheless.

* * *

When the screams, Eragon's screams, had finally stopped, it was not half an hour before pained roars of a dragon, obviously Saphira, rang through the castle. Arya, lying on the uncomfortable plank, felt a shiver run up her spine at the thought that her friend, and the last hope for dragons in Alagaesia, was being tormented by the worse fiend to stalk the land for years.

Another shiver ran through her upon the realisation that she was next, closely followed by a memory.

_Her skin was pummeled like a dwarf would hammer rock, then cut with the ease of an elven canoe through water. Yet still she denied Durza the information, and when he attacked her mind, her barriers held firm. More tortures followed; whips, clubs, all bruised her; none broke her. They strengthened her resolve to fight against her tormentor, the killer of her friends, ever more, even as they struck her with all the force the Shade could summon. Then came the poison, and the drugs. Too weak to think, she could still feel the strange substances within her blood, weakening her further, and she was taken back to the lonely cot in the lonely cell, to get what little sleep she could before another session of torture._

The torments she had endured had been terrible, but she cast them from her mind and drew herself back into herself. Dwelling on the past would do nothing.

Half an hour after she came back out of her memory, unknowing of how much time was spent in the realms of the past, Arya heard the roars of pain cease, to be followed by a weaker roar of anger, then silence.

Galbatorix would come for her next.

It was some twenty minutes before forbodeing footsteps rang through the corridor. There was muttering from the guards outside, and shifting of nervous feet; Arya stood, fists clenched at her sides, staring at the door. She counted the steps from when they started, hoping to estimate the length of the space outside; any knowledge would be vital if she hoped to escape. At Gil'ead, the corridor outside her cell had extended for around forty feet to the left, before sounds ceased, but to the right the sounds had continued until they fell out of her range of hearing.

Now, she knew that it was quite a long corridor outside her cell; thirty-eight steps had been taken by the timme the footsteps ceased and reached the door. An order was given, then a conformation, and the cell door was pushed open by a guard. A pause, then the King walked in.

The first thing Arya noticed was that he had a small stride, of two feet or so, making the corridor heading away from her cell roughly eighty feet long. She made the calculations immediately, knowing that they might be needed at any time.

His boots, cape, and gloves were all made out of some kind of leather; which type she knew not, but she had a suspicion.

The sword at his belt was sheathed, yet the sight of it made her feel exposed without her own. The glyph, crudely crafted onto a scabbard that she could tell was not its own, said 'Vrangr', or 'Awry'. The hilt had a strangely translucent diamond in it, which in Galbatorix's hand did indeed appear to be wrong or misshapen, an unearthly apparation of somme strange form.

The crown she recognised from depictions in scrolls, but not as the crown of Galbatorix. Nay, it was the ancient, ancestral crown of King Palencar, from the first land of humans across the seas. Red gold it was, gleaming, but the dark light cast by Uru'baen's very walls rendered its beauty fleeting and tainted. It was, Arya thought,extremely symbolic of the human race; ancient in lineage but enslaved and corrupted by a tyrant. Yet still sometimes its true power and strength would shown, like in Nasuada's ability to lead, and in Eragon's stubbornness, resiliance, purity, and honour. All those qualities shone strong in him, and in others too, yet in he they burned brighter than they did in many elves. He would remain uncorrupted as long as doing so was in his power or Saphira's, and she and the rest of the Varden admired him for it.

The King's face-framed with hair of dark black, a hooked nose protruding between two deep-set eyes-was something she had been expecting less then she had the spoils of war. To her, he had always been faceless, the idea of a man vile beyond comprehension, and to put a face to his name was a strange experience. It disconcerted her; in her mind, she went from being devoted to bringing down a tyrant to bringing down a man, and the change was strange to fathom, for some unknown reason.

All the observing took a mere few seconds, then she acted. Knowing it would be futile, but not caring, she started to lash out a leg at one of his, but before he had even moved pushed off with the other, hoping to catch him off guard and jump over him, possibly kicking him at the same time. However, his reflexes, enhanced with his enchanted elven speed, allowed him to duck and grab her leg as she jumped over him, bringing her head towards the ground because of the halted momentum.

Her arms blocked the fall, as they had when she fought Murtagh, and she wrenched her leg away before rolling forwards towards the entrance to the cell. A curse didn't stop her, but a spell did.

Galbatorix's simple 'Letta' spell had frozen her when she was still in a crouching position. She could see little of him, as her head was bent, but his feet circled her once, twice, then halted in front of her. The strange leather was almost under her nose, and it stank. If she had the freedom to open her mouth, she would spit on it, but she didn't.

His left boot suddenly lashed out, connecting with her right shoulder, followed by his right hitting her left. Arya felt pain burst into both shoulders, but it was worse on her left; obviously, he was right-handed, and that side's kick had been stronger. Fortunately, that left her own stronger arm better off, but she still couldn't use it. The spell was entirely restricting.

The dark King spoke; his words soft, yet powerful; his tone silky, yet malevolent to her ears. He was persuasive in his speech, but to her the words were tainted by the knowledge of what this man had done, both a hundred years in the past and over the course of the last few hours, the latter being the more personal anger, rather strangely.

"So, you are the elf Durza struggled with for so long. And he was right about one thing; you are very beautiful." A hand touched her hair, and she shivered. The motion made her realise that the spell had been released, and she turned the stationary roll into a backwards one, ending in a crouch, right hand on the floor and head looking up at Galbatorix. The king didn't seem fazed by the elf, ready to jump forwards and attack, in front of him, and he simply froze her with another spell and a little laugh.

"However, what Durza wasn't right about was how to break you. You're strong, aren't you? Proud? Arrogant? Obviously. You're an elf. The worst scars, the mental ones, will not come from large-scale beatings, at least not with you. No, you shall feel worse after small things, little things, one by one, which you cannot defend yourself against. The mental blow to your pride is just as bad from one torture to the next, because they are tortures. You can cope with the physical aspects; this you have proven. But small, mental blows to your pride are just as effective against your belief in your own superiority as the largest tortures. I have had a long time to think about such things." He reached down, kneeling in front of her and grinning from some sadistic pleasure. Still she could not move or speak.

"Therefore, when a small injury becomes a nagging one, which you are unable to heal by magic, and you are completely exposed to whatever might come of the small injury, you will feel worse than ever for being brought down by something so easily healable." He reached forwards, snapped her right little finger easily. Her face remained motionless, but within she was crying out in shock.

"And again..." The other little finger. Arya gasped now, realising again that she could move, but the King had already retreated a few steps, to the doorway. Out of reach of any surprise attacks.

"You have enslaved a world, and you shall die for it," She stated, coldly, and the King merely laughed, before slamming the door and issuing orders to the men at the sides. They replied, and the sound of the footsteps, thirty-eight of them, moved away down the corridor again.

She glanced downwards, at the crooked fingers that she could not heal, and a small tear escaped her eyes.

Galbatorix was right.

That was the only way she would be broken.

That or betrayal.

* * *

**Not looking good at all. Oh dear. Captured, weakened... What can they do? Not much, really...**

**I didn't really find Nasuada's capture as something that meant Eragon would feel that all was lost and his power was insufficient, so that didn't really work with the prophecy in my opinion. All would be much more lost, and his power would seem even more insufficient, with a practical demonstration of Galby's power and cruelty, not to mention the loss of the only Rider and dragon who are free. So yeah, he needs the VoS, but how can he reach it? He's trapped! So are Arya and Saphira!**

**What will the Varden do now!**

Galby is evil, as we all know, and I hope I portrayed Arya well in this. Should it be a part of the last chapter, or not? I think it works on its own quite well, so...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Roran gazed out over Dras-Leona's gate, behind which the Varden were arranged, as well as on the wall to either side of him. After Eragon's capture, they had been forced backwards by the oncoming Empire troops, and into the city had been their only retreat. Fortunately for them, the Empire had been too distracted to search the camp properly, and Eragon's elven guards had escaped the released trap and returned, fighting now as magicians would, on the front lines, wherever they might be.

All eleven of them now stood in a line, to Roran's right, bove the gate. Like him, they looked out at the camp, now occupied by the Empire, which had held a majority of the Varden's supplies, and a good deal of their weapons. Only the men who were equipped to fight were defending the city, meaning that they were outnumbered by about five thousand men.

The Empire's army was now arranged in front of the gate, ready, it seemed, to begin a seige. No messages or preliminary declarations had been sent; this was warfare, pure and simple. One army attacking a city, another defending it. There were no unnecessary attatchments, just two foes, about to fight. Silence and suspense were the prevalent features of the atmosphere.

Roran took deep breaths to steady himself, but could not steady his inner imbalance. The capture of Eragon, despite the best efforts of twelve of the best elven spellcasters-counting Arya-as well as his dragon, not to mention Eragon himself, had left Roran shocked. Such an event as the removal of his cousin was something he had not expected until Uru'baen, or until Galbatorix himself flew forth.

Indeed, such situations would be less embarassing than this. Their one hope had been captured; not in one last stand at the gate of the enemy's castle, nor in an epic clash between two Riders, each a symbol of his own side, each a leader, both deciding the fate of a nation. Nay, the Rider of the great blue dragon had been taken by surprise and overwhelmed by an unwilling servant with a mere fraction of the power available to the one true target.

But the Varden defied Galbatorix still. Their flag flew over Dras-Leona, their troops raised sword and spear still, and as they had before even the birth of Eragon, they denied Galbatorix's rule. The show of rousing pride heartened Roran, but not overmuch. He felt that he had failed to even be there when his cousin had been rather publically defeated, and that weighed greatly on his conscience.

But that was not for the here, that was not for the now. A battle was to be fought, and Roran would be fighting, and thoughts of defeated heroes were 'as much use as trying to use a needle to kill a fly; highly unnecessary, extremely tedious, and more likely to get yourself hurt than your enemy,' as Angela had remarked to him once. The witch, he saw, was amongst the Urgal warriors, who were all fighting-they never left their weapons behind-and they seemed to be swapping tales with each other, though Roran couldn't understand the Urgal tounge.

Yarbog was one of them, and it seemed that he was demonstrating what had happened in his fight against Roran; his hands were on his horns, his head shaking from side to side.

Showing her own tale, it seemed, Angela then did something Roran didn't quite understand. She reached upwards, as if to grab something hovering in the sky. One hand grabbed at something, then went to her mouth and swallowed, then again and again, until the entire imaginary thing was devoured, and the Urgals nodded, the name or title 'Uluthrek' rang through the night.

Roran never knew quite what to make of the herbalist, nor anything she said, so he turned back to surveying the army that seemed ready to assault the gate. They were in well-assembled ranks, archers at the front now, but with channels through the groups for the soldiers to run through.

They had little seige equipment, and their battering ran had obviously been cut and shaped the day before. The end was ragged, and it was quite small, but it might still be able to break through the weaker northern gate. While that which the Varden had besieged was strong enough to hold them, without control of the lake or the land to that side they had been unable to attack the weaker gate, and had instead relied upon Eragon opening the stronger one from within. But the Empire were perfectly able to assault the weaker gate, which meant that they would likely break in.

Roran's commpany were at the forefront of the army within the gate, as were the Urgals. The dwarves with the Varden had chosen to stay away from the Urgals, and instead took positions on the wall, where they had a height advantage, and could also utilise the power of their bows, which Orik had told Roran were made out of Urgal horn.

It struck Roran that that fact was one of the reasons that they chose to remain away from the eight-foot Kull, quite apart from the size difference.

A single arrow came from the ranks of the Empire, as if a test. It clattered off the wall below the archers opposinig the Empire.

Roran pointed to one of the dwarves that stood to the side, who nodded, and fired an arrow towards the ranks of the Empire.

It struck a commander's horse in the neck, and the beast whinnied in pain before collapsing to the ground, the rider jumping off and uttering a foul curse. Roran noticed that the battlefield had now fallen eerily quiet, as if the world, suddenly unsurre of itself, had frozen in panic.

Somewhere behind him, someone tested a bowstring. It 'twang'ed loudly, the sound oddly satisfying. There was a scraping sound as a sword was drawn out of its sheath. Roran lifted his hammer, already out. The calm was almost supernatural, as the two armies simply stared at one another.

Then, commands rang through the morning air. Horns sounded, war cries were raised, and the Empire's army ran forwards, as a volley of arrows soared towards the walls. In answer, Roran called for the archers to fire, and the dwarven bows released their projectiles, tearing through many of the first ranks of the attacking army, even as the archers ducked down and arrows clattered across the stones around them and before them. The dwarf Roran had told to fire was struck in the rear as he bent.

But Roran did not wait to see more. "Fire as soon as you're ready! Show these Empire scum how to use a bow!" He was already hurrying to the tower at the side of the gate, and he heard an answering yell from the archers as he began to descend.

At the bottom, he advanced to the forefront of the army there, nodding to Angela and Yarbog on the way. Angela waved, Yarbog bared his throat, and Roran passed the two, going towards his own company.

Once he reached the head, Nar Garzhvog, the Urgal leader, was already there. They bared their throats to each other, as Roran had learnt was custom between leaders, and stood side by side, facing the gate and ready to fight the attackers.

In Roran's previous four seiges-Fenister, Belatona, Auroghs, Dras-Leona-in that order-he had always been part of the attacking force. There was a distinctively different atmosphere whilst defending; you weren't in a hurry, but your enemies were. He disliked that fact, prefering action, but he would have to deal with it.

Okay people, so sorry about this, but this is where Capture ends. I've lost inspiration for it. I'll go back to posting the chapters of Ebrithilar up on here, then start on the sequel to that.

Hate to be one of those people that quits a story, but sometimes you have to. It's a dissapointment to myself, but hey. What am I supposed to do? Act like I care? That'd be lying to myself. And I don't do that if I can help it, so yeah. Goodbye from this story! It wasn't too brilliant, and that's my final word. 


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